


Bored

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quiet Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:10:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Himuro doesn’t think anything of it, at first. Murasakibara is prone to acting suddenly, when he does at all, and the best way to take advantage of his occasional bursts of affection is to capitulate to them when they come without asking questions." Murasakibara is bored watching the tournament, and Himuro is more than willing to be a source of entertainment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bored

Himuro doesn’t think anything of it, at first. Murasakibara is prone to acting suddenly, when he does at all, and the best way to take advantage of his occasional bursts of affection is to capitulate to them when they come without asking questions. Himuro is always ready for the physical contact he so rarely gets outside of the closed doors of his or Murasakibara’s apartment, after all, so when a hand curls around his waist and pulls him in closer he barely glances back before he moves under the force, steps in sideways and back to fit his shoulders against Murasakibara’s chest. It’s warmer like this, the radiant heat of the other boy’s body enough to extend past the insulation of Himuro’s sweater, and Himuro is completely willing to stay here for the rest of the tournament, if Murasakibara wants him.

The arm looped around his waist is just as welcome, if similarly unexpected. Murasakibara’s arms fit in against Himuro’s sweater, draw Himuro’s balance back against the support of the other boy, and this is  _far_  more expressive than Murasakibara usually gets in public but Himuro has no intention of complaining. He’s comfortable, and warm, all his skin glowing pleasantly with appreciation of the physical affection being bestowed upon him.

Then Murasakibara’s arm drags him back another inch, brings their hips in flush so Himuro can feel resistance up against the line of his back, and his breathing catches into something far closer to heat than simple warmth. Murasakibara is turning his head, letting his breathing catch against Himuro’s hair, and he’s not moving but he doesn’t have to, for Himuro to feel how hard he is against the other’s back.

Himuro doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think at all, really, doesn’t consider alternatives or refusal; the possibility of cutting this off before it begins never even crosses his mind. The room in front of them is full of people, everyone’s attention focused on the game happening in front of them, and Murasakibara is pressed in against him, and Himuro’s heart is beating faster even before he shifts his feet and pushes back, arching his back so he can grind his hips against Murasakibara’s.

There’s a hiss, so faint Himuro can only hear it because Murasakibara’s mouth is all but touching his ear, and the arm around his waist tenses, holds him steady while Murasakibara rocks his hips forward to rock against Himuro’s back. The heat makes Himuro gasp his next inhale, the sound trying to turn into a groan of appreciation before he stops it, and Murasakibara doesn’t comment on this but he doesn’t pull away, either. He holds Himuro where he is, maintains the pressure against the other boy’s hips as he shifts his to press in against the other’s body with a rhythm so steady and slow Himuro is flushing just from the thought of what this would be like without the interruption of clothes, with Murasakibara pinning him down to a mattress and moving over and in him instead of grinding against his back.

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t even think of saying anything. No one is turning around, the entire audience too entranced by the game to spare a moment for the boys at the back of the room, and besides, Himuro is sure without seeing that Murasakibara looks calm, probably faintly bored, with no trace on his features of the heat Himuro can feel digging in against him with every careful roll of Murasakibara’s hips.

Himuro has no intention of protesting. As far as he is concerned this is excitement enough, the steady push of Murasakibara’s cock against him thrilling even through the layers of their clothes and without the gratification of skin-on-skin contact. But then Murasakibara takes a breath, like he’s preparing to speak, and when Himuro goes still in anticipation the hand around his waist comes sideways, and down, and slides up under the fabric to drag across his stomach.

It’s very nearly too much, that first burst of contact. Himuro jerks, barely biting back a groan at the friction against his skin, and Murasakibara leans in closer, hunching his shoulders in over the other until his face falls into shadow while his hand slides downward. It feels inexorable, that slow motion down to the front of Himuro’s jeans, and it’s desperation more than belief that he’ll stop the other that pushes Himuro into movement. He reaches up, grabs blindly at Murasakibara’s hair to hold him where he is when he turns his head to hiss, “Atsushi, someone will  _see_ ,” as if that will be enough to deter the other.

Murasakibara makes a noise of protest, a child being denied a treat, his hand still working at the button of Himuro’s jeans. “Hold your sweater out,” he suggests, the fastening coming loose as he starts to pull at the other’s zipper. “No one will be able to see anything.”

Himuro whines, something between protest and excitement, hovering at the edge of uncertainty. Then Murasakibara’s fingers come in low over his stomach, slide smoothly under the elastic waistband of his boxers, and Himuro chokes on a breath and reaches to stuff his hands into the pocket of his sweater as Murasakibara’s fingers close around his cock. It’s an awkward angle, the attempt to make his position look natural as he holds the sweater out to cover the telltale stroke of Murasakibara’s hand, but he can hear the other humming low and pleased in his ear and all his skin is burning with sensation, the friction twice as thrilling with the danger of exposure all around them. When he looks down he can’t see anything, just the taut-drawn line of the front of his sweater, but he can feel everything, the way Murasakibara is tightening his fingers and the drag of his thumb over the slippery head of Himuro’s cock. Murasakibara is still hard against him, too, the whole line of him pressed unmoving against Himuro’s back, and for a single wild moment Himuro has the thought of Murasakibara sliding up and into him, fucking him open behind the backs of all the strangers in front of them. He has to shut his eyes against the image, bite his lip to hold back the whimper on his tongue, and Murasakibara growls soft in his ear, slides his other hand up under Himuro’s sweater to press bruising fingerprints into the line of his hip as he holds him in place. Himuro wants to reach up to grab at Murasakibara’s shoulder, to make a fist of his hair, to brace himself against the inevitable shake in his knees as those fingers drag him closer and closer to satisfaction, but he can’t even tip his head back for fear of discovery, has to keep his face as expressionless as possible in case someone should happen to look away from the game. He’s not watching anymore, can’t even keep track of who’s playing; it’s hard enough to remember why he has to be quiet, why he has to keep his hands braced in his pockets, why he should pay attention to anything at all but the hands digging heat against his skin and the faint gasp of Murasakibara’s breathing in his ear.

“Atsushi,” he tries, and it comes out weak and shaky but soft enough that he won’t be overheard, isn’t even sure Murasakibara will hear him. “Atsushi, if you keep going--” He doesn’t finish the sentence, isn’t sure he can, but Murasakibara doesn’t so much as hesitate. If anything he leans in closer, the weight of him pressing hard against Himuro like an unspoken threat, and when he draws his hand up Himuro can’t resist, can’t care if someone does turn around after all. His head tips back, his throat drawing taut on an unvoiced moan as his head hits Murasakibara’s shoulder, and as Murasakibara’s hand slides up over him Himuro’s thoughts go completely blank for a moment. He doesn’t care who might be watching, doesn’t care that his face is relaxing into lines of unmistakable satisfaction; it’s all heat under his skin, flooding out into his blood and shivering through him as he comes over Murasakibara’s fingers and against the inside of his sweater.

His knees are shaking by the time he comes down from the wave of pleasure. Murasakibara is still hunched in over him, the audience is still a wall of unsuspicious backs when Himuro blinks his vision back into clarity, and although he feels lightheaded and dizzy from the heat it looks like they may have, miraculously, gotten away with it.

Then Murasakibara lets him go, slides his hand around to fit between Himuro’s back and his own hips, and the rush of heat that hits Himuro is so intense he nearly falls before he can catch his balance.

He doesn’t speak then either. Maybe it’s the pleasure lingering heavy in his veins, or maybe it’s a sense of justice; it’s not fair for him to get off and not Murasakibara, after all. Mostly it’s just that the idea of Murasakibara’s cock against his skin is scintillating, exciting enough to send a prickle of anticipation through him even in spite of the languid satisfaction in his limbs.

Himuro slides his hands free of his sweater, leaves the fabric to cling sticky against his skin while he fumbles his jeans back into place and closed again as quickly as he can. By the time his hands are back in the pocket of his sweater and he’s leaning back to offer Murasakibara the cover of his shoulders, the other has his jeans open, is pulling Himuro’s sweater wide of his hips so he can fit himself in against the bare skin of the other’s back.

It’s probably more subtle, from the front. Himuro schools his features into the best approximation of idle interest in the game he can manage, lets his shoulders relax as he leans back against Murasakibara’s chest. It still feels terrifyingly exposed, to have Murasakibara’s cock pressed flush against him, even before the other boy gets his hand closed around himself and starts stroking, staying so close his knuckles drag up the line of Himuro’s spine.

It’s almost more nerve-wracking, like this, when Himuro can find the focus to consider the dangers of the setting. This is a spectacularly bad idea, he knows, can see rationally that if they get caught he is going to regret not stopping Murasakibara earlier. But Murasakibara’s face is pressed in against his shoulder, he can hear the other’s breathing coming faster and choppier, and for all that he can rationally see the case for regret he can’t remember how to feel it around the thrilling excitement in his veins. Murasakibara groans into his shirt when Himuro arches his back, grabs at his hip to hold him steady when the other leans back against him; Himuro can feel how hot he is, the sticky catch of pre-come warm against his back and the slide of Murasakibara’s fingers moving faster and faster. His own breathing is going quicker to match, panting with desperation like he’s the one approaching the edge, and when he slides a hand free of his pocket it’s so he can reach behind him to dig his fingertips into the tension in Murasakibara’s thigh.

“Atsushi,” he breathes, low and shaky and desperate, and Murasakibara jerks against him like he’s been shocked, lets all of his breath out in one burst of air.

“Muro-chin,” he whines, so faint it’s nearly a whisper, and sags against Himuro’s shoulders as he splashes heat up against the other boy’s back. Himuro’s chest goes tight, secondhand satisfaction coursing through his veins, and Murasakibara turns his head so his mouth draws over Himuro’s neck in something that almost has the shape of a kiss. Himuro shuts his eyes, lets the warmth against his skin drown out logic for a moment, and Murasakibara lingers too, pressed in as close as they can get under the circumstances.

It’s Himuro who moves first, arching away so Murasakibara can slide back and away. His sweater is sticky, clinging to his skin in what feels telltale but is probably nearly impossible to see, evidence of their actions spread across his hidden skin while Murasakibara draws his clothes back into place. By the time Himuro risks a glance back over his shoulder, Murasakibara looks as composed as ever, not even a trace of a blush to give away what they were doing.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Himuro manages, sounding very nearly normal under the circumstances. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Murasakibara says, his tone saying he doesn’t care where Himuro goes or if he comes back at all. He doesn’t look when Himuro moves towards the door, doesn’t say anything beyond that one word of agreement. But Himuro is just reaching for the handle when there’s a touch at his shoulder, warm fingers tracing over the line of his neck, and when he looks up Murasakibara is leaning in, tipping in close so he can fit his mouth to Himuro’s.

It’s only for a moment, the heat of his lips pulling away as quickly as it came as Murasakibara lets his hand fall and turns back to look out at the game below them. But Himuro’s lips are tingling warm from the contact, his breathing coming quick with pleasure, and when he steps out into the hallway he’s smiling, although there’s no one there to see it.


End file.
